


This Moment In Time

by CedarTheBarefoot



Series: We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [8]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Apologies, Hand Jobs, Hunters & Hunting, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27405145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedarTheBarefoot/pseuds/CedarTheBarefoot
Summary: Harold was a little cleverer in his steps than Old Boy. The small horse got Arthur down safely in no time while Old Boy eased along. Arthur dismounted in a spot upwind. It seemed a reasonable enough place to wait for any game that might come through for a drink. There were obvious signs of deer in the area, and it had been a hot day. So it was only a matter of time before something would come through for water.In the meantime, they were finally alone. And Arthur’s nerve was as strong as it ever was going to be.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1211598
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	This Moment In Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you’re all safe and well!
> 
> There are some vague spoilers here for Chapter 2 and 3. I’ll continue skipping along in the story. Hopefully still providing some sort of escape for you all. 
> 
> There is some lovin’s in this chapter, and there is mention of wild game being shot. 
> 
> The spot described North of Clemens Point is an actual place I liked to go and just do some quiet fishing while playing the game. There aren’t any amazing fish in the water, but it’s a nice little area to just escape.
> 
> Stay safe, my dears!

_“I need time.”_

That was all Arthur had been able to say. 

He didn’t even know why he said it. He had meant to tell Marston that he had to get his head out of his arse and get some perspective. He’d planned to tell him about the two inverts that his father had made him see swing as a boy in embellished detail. 

He’d intended to say no. 

Tell him to bury that foolish, unnatural feeling deep, deep down. 

Because it wasn’t real. 

Because even though it wasn’t real, it still needed to be buried.

Because it would get him lynched.

Because how could anyone ever love an ugly, cruel son of a bitch such as himself...?

Instead, _”I need time.”_ was what had come out of his mouth. And _“Okay.”_ was what had come out of John’s.

If folks noticed that the two men were snapping at each other less, ignoring each other less, and sort of...quietly coexisting...nothing was said. There was too much going on otherwise. Robberies, shooting up Strawberry on account of Micah, the oil wagon, the train, the Pinkertons, Leviticus Cornwall…

There had been fear and an unmistakably dark rage rolling in the pit of Arthur’s stomach when he’d seen the barrel of that gun at John’s temple and the firm arm around his scarred throat. The serious conversation they’d had with a single meeting of their eyes. 

Brown and blue. 

All in one look, there was an agreement that they were about to do something incredibly dangerous. All in one look, there was an acknowledgement that one or both of them might die in the next few moments. All in one look, there was the silent wish of good luck, and reassurement that they _could_ make it out alive. 

But there was also the painful admittance of saying goodbye…all in one look.

Suddenly, things were overwhelmingly real.

There was a familiar, tentative calm that had settled over camp. Everyone had finished unpacking their tents and their belongings. Taking the time to figure out what had been lost, and to feel relatively thankful for what had survived the journey. 

Arthur had just finished setting up his cot when he looked up and caught John’s eye. Again. This time John was tightening ropes on his tent. Brown eyes peeked over at him from under the brim of his hat. A slight greenish-yellow half circle was all that had remained from that punch. The bruise had healed up well, and was hardly visible now unless you knew what to look for. 

They hadn’t spoken much before their flight. The train job had gone over decently, and Arthur had spared the compliments that John deserved for his plan. Aside from that, it was mostly just...looking. Pretending not to look. 

Something had to give. 

Arthur couldn’t take it anymore. He had wanted time. But he’d just been reminded, very thoroughly, that there might never be enough time.

“Hey, Dutch?” 

The older man was talking, or arguing, in hushed tones with Hosea inside his tent. He looked up when Arthur came into view, “Son?” 

“I’m gonna take John and see if there’s any game in the area,” he said, leaning against the center pole. Pointedly, he ignored how the man in question quickly looked up, pausing in his work. “Folks could use their spirits lifted, and a decent supper’ll probably do wonders,”

Dutch was already nodding, “Good idea, Arthur.”

Hosea looked concerned, “We don’t know the area that well yet. Just keep your wits about ya, and be careful.” 

Arthur nodded, and purposefully looked at John this time. Curious eyes met his. He nodded towards the trail and went to collect his rifle and satchel from his tent. John was on his heels as they made their way to the horses. After saddling up, Arthur led the way from Clemens Point.

The two men said nothing as they rode. 

As quiet as John’s mouth was, his thoughts were abuzz with questions. _Why won’t he look at me? Something’s different. Is he angry with me? He must be. I went and got caught. He must think I’m useless. Building up to give me an earful. Goddamnit._

They followed the main road in a Northerly direction and eventually left the path. Arthur had spotted a game trail and led the way into the forest. Wary of the widow-makers and tricky logs, they eased the horses downhill until a pond came into view through the thick of the trees. 

Harold was a little cleverer in his steps than Old Boy. The small horse got Arthur down safely in no time while Old Boy eased along. Arthur dismounted in a spot upwind. It seemed a reasonable enough place to wait for any game that might come through for a drink. There were obvious signs of deer in the area, and it had been a hot day. So it was only a matter of time before something would come through for water.

In the meantime, they were finally alone. And Arthur’s nerve was as strong as it ever was going to be. 

John caught up and dismounted. He was tugging his rifle from the boot hanging on his saddle when a pair of strong hands whirled him around.   
Every thought possible left his mind. His heart picked up in pace, and all the air left his chest. 

He’d been pulled into a crushing hug. 

His rifle dropped to the ground and everything went still. The soft sound of the leaves rustling in the soft breeze quieted. The birds could no longer be heard. The fish quit their jumping for insects on the water’s surface. 

After a long moment, John relaxed and he brought his hands up around Arthur. Embracing the solid muscles of his form, and holding tight. Resting his head on the strong shoulder. Breathing deep and slow. Taking in Arthur’s scent. The sweat of escape, gunsmoke and pine pitch lingered on him. 

The big man pulled back, his jaw set, his hands coming up to John’s face. Softly cradling the tender, pink marks on his cheek. His blue eyes looked somber and pained. 

Then he leaned in.

And John stiffened. 

He couldn’t believe it.

He was kissing him.

 _Arthur Morgan_ was kissing _him_.

John was held there with firm hands hooked around the back of his head and neck. A shiver traveled up his spine. His eyes sunk closed and he grabbed encouragingly at the other’s waist.

Arthur hadn’t kissed him in years. 

They’d settled into an amiable quiet after John had confessed to him. John didn’t push. Arthur didn’t pull. 

He wondered for a moment if the other man was...well, drunk. Like last time.

But he didn’t taste of alcohol. 

The stubble on Arthur’s face burned against his, scraping his lips. Lips abused by hungry teeth and soothed with an eager tongue. John could hardly breathe, feeling senseless and overjoyed. Evening out his stance, he tugged Arthur closer by the waistband of his trousers and purposefully pressed their groins together. 

John had wanted this for so long. 

A moan got caught up in his chest and Old Boy pawed at the ground.

Arthur pulled away, feeling dizzy. 

“Wait,” John started desperately, tightening his grip on the big man’s waist. His protest was cut short when Arthur rumbled, “Thought I was gonna lose you.” 

John froze. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. But it wasn’t that.

Arthur clung to him for balance, and shook his head, his vision blurring a little, “Thought he was gonna shoot you, blow your brains out in front of me. Can’t go through that again.” 

John frowned, watching in shock as Arthur’s eyes welled up. He wiped at a tear that escaped, almost feeling fearful. He’d _never_ seen Arthur cry. 

“Arthur, I-I’m sorry I,”

“No, I’m sorry,” Arthur said, sliding his fingers through John’s hair, looking sadly at the fading bruise on the younger’s face. “Shit, I’m so sorry…I won’t see you dead because of me.” 

“It weren’t your fault,”

“No. Not Cornwall. This. This thing. Us. It’s _wrong_ ,” he said, shaking his head and lowering his hands, pulling away, “At least that’s what people think.”

“I don’t give a damn about what other people think. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with this,” John insisted, gingerly cupping the big man’s face, stepping in before the big man could move back, “I said I loved you and I meant it.” 

“It ain’t that simple,”

“Oh, _shut up_ , Arthur,” John growled in frustration and yanked him in for another kiss. To hide his own fears and to smother Arthur’s worries.

For this moment in time, it was working.

Large hands moved tentatively under his coat. John slid his fingers into Arthur’s hair, knocking his hat from his head. A shudder crawled up the bigger man’s spine, and he wrapped his arms firmly around John’s lean waist. Their lips burned against each other’s stubble. Harsh puffs of breath brushed their faces. Arthur grunted when teeth and tongue grazed over his lower lip. 

Tilting his hips, John rubbed his groin up against Arthur’s. His interest was growing more and more obvious by the minute. That hadn’t changed at least. John sighed in relief, the friction long-awaited, still too much and not enough. He wriggled a determined hand in between them, a struggle since they were clinging so stoutly to one another.

It had been such a long time, and he didn’t want to wait another second. 

Arthur bit off a groan, baring his teeth when the brunet clasped the distinct outline of his johnson against his trousers. A similar sound came from John, sounding genuinely pleased to have his hand where it was.

“Please,” came the quiet, desperate sound, “Please, Arthur.”

Without thinking, the blond slid his hands back around and went to work, frantically undoing John’s flies.

The horses nickered in concern when the two men dragged each other to the ground. The leaves crunched, a twig snapped and some ferns were crushed. They hardly noticed, too distracted by one another. Taken away by something so familiar amongst the rich scent of the forest floor. Burning kisses and deft hands made their heads spin. 

They grunted and sighed together, hips stuttering into each other’s grip.

Finally. John _finally_ had Arthur’s cock in his hands. He remembered exactly how the big man liked it best. No time was wasted. John had learned over the years how precious it was. He used long, full strokes with a sure twist to his wrist from root to the very tip. The other hand was busy cupping and stroking his balls.

Arthur hadn’t forgotten how John liked it either. One calloused hand loosely stroked him up and down, while he rubbed the pads of his fingers firmly against the underside of the crown. He drank up each desperate sound driven from the brunet. Relished the familiar velvety hardness, straining in his hand. A bead of sweat rolled down to the small of his back in the warmth. It was enough to momentarily distract him, to get him thinking, to make him feel itchy. 

Pausing, he pulled away and glanced nervously around the forest that no longer felt silent.

The horses stood tall and curiously, nosing at the tufts of grass between the bits of ground cover. The small creek that fed the pond sloshed gently down the rocks. There were some birds calling to each other nearby. Sunlight peeked through the canopy, slipping peacefully between the leaves in the trees. Things were still. They were alone. As far as he could tell at least.

“ _Arthur_ ,” 

He looked back in time to be pushed down onto his back. Real slow and gentle-like. Then John Marston was straddling him before he could even wonder if he should protest...if he wanted to protest. Rational thought was difficult when his cock was being worked without abandon. Mercilessly even. 

Muscles all along Arthur’s body tensed, and he stared up at John. Desirous brown eyes took him in before leaning down to kiss him. Rough hunger met his lips. Fumbling, Arthur took hold of John again, stroking him swiftly in his fist. Their knuckles bumped against each other, their crowns occasionally rubbing together. 

“Fuck, _John_ ,”

Arthur suddenly broke away from their delirious kisses, and threw his head back. Gasping. Arching his hips up off of the forest floor, nearly unseating John. Groaning low in his chest, his belly all of a sudden feeling light with release. John buried his face against the blond’s chest, choking out a cry. They came off only moments apart, and the waves of pleasure and shock lingered in their bodies. 

They laid there amongst the broken ferns, panting. Perspiring from the exertion. 

John listened to the rapid beat of Arthur’s heart carefully slow as they both came down from the high they’d soared to. He’d missed this. He’d missed the way Arthur’s hands felt on him. The taste of his lips. The familiar heaviness of his cock. The sounds he made and the way he looked when coming off. The way he smelled after sex. The way Arthur held him afterward, comfortingly stroking his hair even though he had to be just as winded from their efforts.

He’d missed it all. 

Harold snorted, lifting his head from his grazing, ears perked across the pond. 

A twig snapped.

Within seconds, Arthur had seized the forgotten rifle, bolted upright, and loaded the chamber. 

John had swiftly found himself thrown onto his back with Arthur knelt between his legs, the rifle aimed over him. His hand had gone quickly to the revolver on his hip and his head tilted back to take in the unseen danger. 

A doe picked her head up on the opposite shoreline where she’d been creeping in for a drink. 

Arthur fired.

The doe dropped to ground across the pond and a few tails of white, other deer, disappeared back into the brush at the gunshot. It echoed through the trees, sending birds flying from the branches in the wake of the big man’s prowess and swift determination with a gun.

Slowly, Arthur lowered the rifle, his jaw set and lips pressed firmly together. He looked down at John. The brunet looked back up at him, wetting his dry lips, pushing himself up to sit. 

He had been prepared to shoot down anything, or any _one_. Ready to kill any who had witnessed what he and John had done. 

Blue eyes shifted down to the scarred mouth.

John swallowed hard.

This moment above all would decide their future. If Arthur pulled away now and went back to pretending nothing had ever happened...then that was that. Abigail had warned him. He would be heartbroken, but at least he had a chance at having Arthur in his life. At least until their outlaw status got them separated, jailed or killed. 

The big man surprised him.

Leaning in, his eyes sunk closed and he pressed his brow against John’s. 

Then his hands were down between them, and carefully tucking himself back into his drawers. John followed suit, not leaning away, looking down between them. Silently watching their hands tuck their private bits away and doing up their flies. Like it could be the last time ever.

Finally, Arthur tipped his head up slightly, brushing his nose against John’s. They looked softly into one another’s eyes for a long moment. A large, rough hand lifted to caress his scarred cheek. John’s face twitched minutely at the mild sting, but he was otherwise still. Fingers ran along his jaw, and traced tenderly over his lips. 

Then he cupped his chin and kissed him.

A tender, reassuring kiss. 

A promise of more time.

“C’mon,” he said quietly, standing and offering a hand down to John. 

He took it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and/or kudos!   
> Lovely to hear from you!


End file.
